The Cat That Lost Its Tongue
by King of the Ashes
Summary: "But he did awake. And it was an angel that roused him from his dreamless sleep. Ra'Zhag always thought that on the day of his death, he would be greeted by a member of his family...But as his eyes struggled open through the layer of dried blood caking his fur that almost stuck his eyes shut, his vision focused on a Nord bathed in light."
1. Home

**AN: So I hit a snag in All Roads Lead Far From Here and I may not be sure where to go. I was going to introduce Ulrer's sister, but then I figured I may have to introduce her somewhere else. So here. This is sort of about her, but mostly about a Khajiit. Slow beginning, I know. I was mostly getting a feel for Ra'Zhag's personality. /**

Summers in Skyrim were much the same as the Winters, Ra'Zhag pondered, dragging the tips of his claws against a frozen boulder. Elsweyr would be sweltering this time of year, the sands burning like a bed of coals beneath your feet, but in the land of snows, you would sooner freeze than be graced with the warmth of the sun. He looked down at his boots, crafted with a sabre cat pelt ringing the edge and a plate of metal at the tip, and thought of the sands sifting through his paws. Warm and teeming with life. He remembered chasing lizards through the dunes when he was a cub. Here, the earth was hard and cold, iced over with the ever churning snows.

There were no lizards here, not a single grain of sand. There were times he ached for home, this time especially, when it should have been a miserably hot day, but instead was so cold it made moving painful.

He let his hand droop from the rock's surface and turned to the warmth of the camp he and his caravan had set up just outside of Winterhold, where the Mage's College loomed over the bones of houses that had been swallowed up by the sea. Omazzir and Sinfer were setting up the small tents of patchwork furs in a circle around the campfire, singing old songs from the sands, while the little cubs in the caravan chased each others tails, and Ri'sien unpacked the many potions and elixirs they carried with them. Even the awkward kitten Yem was working hard setting us casks of strong Nord mead, red wine sweetened with Moon Sugar, and a special blend the meek Khajiit had created himself- Argonian Blood. It wasn't made from the blood of Argonians, of course, rather a special brand of ale with petals of Nightshade that made it sting when it hit the throat, along with honey and fermented fruit from Backmarsh, which gave it its name.

They never asked, nor did they expect him to help with much. He was strong, that was his one duty, to be strong for his brothers and keep them safe on the roads. Beyond this, he usually ended up hindering their progress more than helping speed it. The last time he had tried to help Ri'sien with his potions, he ended up shattering a bottle of elven glass and hopelessly scattered his supply of bee wings. He spent a week catching a hive's worth of the little bastards to make up for it, even though his hands were bumpy and the skin broke over the many stings he received while carrying out this task. Ri'sien still didn't let him touch their supplies after that.

He sauntered to the fire, pushing back his hood to feel the mixture of the cold summer winds and oak scented warmth against his whiskers. He dropped into the snows, melting at the touch of the campfire, and sat cross legged.

"Ahh, I cannot wait until we make it back south. It is too harsh this far north," Ak'ier sank down next to the fire across from him. Slender and willowy even for a Khajiit, he dressed in lavish reds and blacks-mud stained from the road- that proclaimed him a bard at first glance, a tankard tied at his waist beside a flute, sheathed like a dagger on his hip. His fur was black, almost blue in certain lights, and his face was marred with scars and white patches of fur splashed like paint along his nose.

"The snow freezes the people's purse strings tighter than a miser. We have not sold so much as a pelt since Windhelm."

"Nords are the only ones that can bear the brunt of the northern weather here, and they have little use of Moon Sugar and potions," Ra'Zhag replied, holding the palm of his hands out beside the heat of the flames, "I've told Ri'sien we should invest more in ores for weapon smithing. They'll pay more for steel and armaments than spell books and elixirs. Yem is the only making money with his brews."

"More like his piss water. But our luck may fare better here." He gestured to the shadow of the College, nearly lost through the fog of snow, "We are among learned mages after all. Their thirst for knowledge will no doubt slate our thirst for coin."

Ra'Zhag hugged himself to savor the warmth of his armor, glancing first to the College, then to the guards patrolling the streets, catching one of them shivering violently.

"They might sooner burn the things for warmth," he muttered, "We should sell them as kindling instead."

Ak'ier shrugged, smirking to himself.

"Not a bad idea, really. But who will pay three thousand septims for kindling? Now this-" He unlatched a black dyed leather book holder on his side and produced an old tome, colored a rich purple and sporting a symbol on the cover. Ra'Zhag always thought it looked like a set of curving fangs, the circle in the middle of them being a drop of blood, but Ri'sien always corrected him when he called it the fang marking, saying it was an Oht symbol, "This will bring in more coin than any matter of kindling."

Ra'Zhag rolled his eyes incredulously. Ak'ier was always hoarding "treasures" and rare finds he came across on the road, stolen from keeps they sometimes went exploring in when Ri'sien allowed them. The only way he would pay that much gold for a book was if it was gem encrusted and summoned a busty tavern maid to his command, and even then the price could do with haggling. But Ak'ier was absolutely sure of himself, launching headfirst into an explanation of the spell and its uses in terms Ra'Zhag only vaguely recognized as words. When Ak'ier got this way, there was no stopping him until he was through, so he looked back to the icy streets of Winterhold to wait until his explanation came to an end, where the students from the college, dressed in parchment and sky colored robes, huddled together in a tight knit group. The small figure at the heart of the huddle was holding a book and reading it aloud to the others who surrounded her, the others peeking over her shoulders easily being that she was a few inches shorter than everyone. Behind the students were the guards, sharpened and shined like an old battle-ax by the frozen city, not quite so bright faced and bushy tailed as the College mages from the years of service to the hold. Ra'Zhag was never very fond of city guards, he would catch them sneering from under their helms when he left the caravan to buy supplies as they would not allow them beyond the walls, and many treated he and his brothers like common criminals. But the guards of Winterhold were rarely concerned about Khajiit as much as they were elves, so he had more patience for them.

His gaze flickered back to the students for a moment as they were slowly encroaching on their camp, the short one making a beeline for the campfire while the others scattered to talk with the others of the caravan. A part of the group went to Ri'sien, who was hurriedly setting out his most expensive and hard to acquire alchemy items for them to see; wisp wrappings, ice wraith fangs, an uprooted nirnroot, a giant's toe. The others, journals in hand, went to talk to the young cubs and the more chatty members of the caravan, jotting down notes every now and again when the traders told a story.

The petite mage, also clutching a journal tied up with strings, sat with her knees tucked under her, scooting a little closer to Ak'ier. Only then did they realize how vigorously he was waving his treasure, and that she had noticed the symbol. She smiled widely, most of her face was hidden from her forehead to her nose, but her plump pink lips were still visible. She pointed almost hesitantly to it.

"Is that a spell book of expel daedra?"

"Ah, a good catch m'lady. You know your spells," he replied. He tapped the tip of his claws against the cover, that smug look on his face exuding a sense of control he didn't possess, as if he really thought he could make the young mage do and pay whatever he wanted, "Have you got an eye for it?"

The short mage was already hastily untying her coin purse.

"Three thousand septims ought to do."

She stopped. Her mouth set in a thin line.

"Three thousand? ...Not that I do not trust your bartering skill I...don't think I can spare that much," she said quietly. She still brought the purse forward and peeked inside, shifting aside gold coins to tally up the cost, "In truth, I've never come across a banish daedra spell book for more than five hundred septims. I can pay you six, if you have trouble parting with it."

A sour expression came across Ak'ier's face.

"M'lady, I do not think you quite understand the powerful nature of this spell, it-"

"Banishes Storm, Flame, and Lightning Daedra and any other Dremora to the Oblivion realm," the mage finished for him, "My skill in Conjuration is only surpassed by my skill as a healer, I'm quite aware of the spells uses. And I'm quite aware it isn't worth even a thousand septims."

She held out the coin purse, gold pieces jingling. It was a hefty bag, as big as Ra'Zhag's fists, large and bulging from all sides with lumps of gold ribbing the outside. The corners of the Khajiit's mouth curled downward with distaste as he stared at the bag. Not quite the treasure chest packed with gems and coins he had expected. Still, he begrudgingly snaked his hand out and snatched the purse, throwing the book in the mage's lap like it pained him to hold onto it a moment longer. Ra'Zhag watched as the short mage snatched it up and shot quickly to her feet, going to speak with her fellow students, a certain excitement in her steps. He turned to Ak'ier, stifling the biggest grin.

"Oh shut up, pommel-head."

"I did not say a word," Ra'Zhag defended, allowing himself a smirk,"But you did deserve that blow and more for your greed."

"My greed keeps your axe polished and your belly full." Ak'ier gripped tightly to the capped vials of the bandolier looped around his waist. A backup plan he had made in the 'unlikely' event he did not sell his book for a High King's ransom, elixirs of sure-shot and antidotes to Frostspider venom and potions to replenish magicka. "The next time you pollute yourself with fine mead and warm meat, you ought to thank me and my greed. Chances are we supplied you with it."

"I will do that the next time you thank me for your waking up in the morning. Chances are me and my axe allowed you to live through the night."

Ak'ier sneered at him and stormed off, presumably to hawk his wares to the other students. He was never left in a good mood when someone called him out. Ra'Zhag sniggered quietly to himself and watched the students make their rounds. He could hear them chattering to some of the cubs of the caravan, asking about their experiences and what they remember of Elsweyr.

Infinitely curious things, he thought. They moved to and from each member of the caravan collecting stories and jotting down in their little journals. What information they would get from a small caravan like his, he had no idea. True they had seen the road beyond where many of these young students could venture, but what stories had they to tell? Stories that would be of any interest to mages anyway.

He met eyes with one, a Breton he guessed by his olive complexion. The young man lit up after seeing the axe on his back-it was almost as tall as him after all, hard to miss- and quickly moved to approach him. The mage would want to talk, Ra'Zhag was no good at talking, he'd want to talk about things Ra'Zhag didn't know about and use words the caravan guard didn't understand, oh no he would not be a part of this conversation, let them speak to Ak'ier.

Ra'Zhag ducked his head immediately and stood up, walking briskly to the wagon resting beside the camp. The thin layer of gold paint gave the caravan wagon a gilded look in certain lights, and it housed almost all their merchandise when they took to the road, as well as Ak'ier and Ra'Zhag's sleeping quarters. Only they were less 'quarters' and more like cots to be placed under a tarp held up by poles, but still they fastened to the side of the wagon along with the materials for a cooking spit and barrels of preserved meat and fruit. He unlocked the door at the rear of the caravan and leapt up the steps to avoid the conversation with the mage and shuttered it closed when he was inside. The inside was brightly lit with candles and the light bounced off the polished floors and the bits of jewelry they kept on cloth pillars. Everything felt slight slanted being that he'd parked the thing on an uneven hill, but their supplies were still in their proper place. He rested against the alchemy table Ri'sien had built into the counters and stared at the door, waiting for the eager student to come after him. A knock of the door, a Dwarven contraption he and Ak'ier had found in a ruin, made him jump. He frowned hard, not wanting to open to the Breton vying for his attention.

"Open the door, Ra'Zhag." It was Ri'sien's exasperated voice. By his tone, Ra'Zhag was sure he would rather speak with the Breton. But still, he carefully peeked out. The gray furred and deeply lined face of his boss scowled at him. He gripped to the edge of the door, ears flattening out against his head.

"Ra'Zhag is not here," he said in a high pitched attempt at a woman's voice, "Also he did not break anything and he is staying away from the customers so you don't need to-"

"I am not going to scold you," Ri'sien sighed heavily, "We're running low on Vampire Dust."

Ra'Zhag made a face. This was an alchemy run. He hated gathering alchemy supplies, but he especially hated finding Vampire Dust. It meant you had to find a group of the walking corpses and kill them before they kill you and scoop their ashes out of the dirt. They smelled like pickled cabbages. And they were so bitey.

"These students are telling me there is a nest of them in a keep nearby, only a few miles," Ri'sien continued, "Think you can ride there before nightfall?"

Knowing this wasn't a question, Ra'Zhag reluctantly nodded and stepped out of the door. Ri'sien didn't give him a second glance and returned to his tent to tend to the inexperienced mages poking around his wares.

Ra'Zhag gathered a few weapons and emergency supplies and saddled his horse, the only horse in the camp besides the one used to pull the caravan and Ak'ier's prized pinto. The mages thankfully left him alone, perhaps because he made sure to brandish his knife in their sight, putting on a stern face to drive home the point he was going to be hunting and they wouldn't want to disturb him. He wouldn't actually hurt any of them but he certainly looked like he would.

After sliding into the saddle of his steed -a bulky silver he had traded for a cave bear pelt and some pieces of Dwarven steel work in Markarth, it was the only horse that was swift even with Ra'Zhag's armor on- he started on the snow dusted road to the east of Winterhold. Out of sight of the camp, he drew a broadsword he had brought specifically for dealing with Vampires. It had always been one of his favorite swords, it was heavy enough to crack a dragon's skull just by dropping it and fit nicely in his palm, but it was only recently that it had begun to glow. Ri'sien had taken the initiative to supply his guards with enchanted weapons and armor when they had gathered a small chest of crystals which turned from white to purple after he cast a spell on fallen enemies. Ra'Zhag wasn't entirely sure how it worked, all he knew was his boots fit more comfortably after they had been enchanted. Which seemed like a waste of magic to him at the time.

Ak'ier insisted everything remotely sharp from his crossbow to his razor be enchanted, but this broadsword was the only thing Ra'Zhag trusted to lay an enchantment on. Ever since Ri'sien had imbued it with a fire spell, it glowed like it was fresh from a forge and it was warm to the touch. He didn't even need to dull the edges anymore, a simple bash with the flat of the sword could set anything ablaze. He smirked to himself and flipped it over the back of his hand, twirling it in a circle at his side, then catching it. Vampires were like soft butter when it came to a flame enchanted weapon. It would make the arduous task a little less of a pain in the ass.

He slid it back into its sheath when he was done admiring it and flipped his cowl over his bundle of white dreads.


	2. Blood

**AN: I've had the first chapter written for like a month, for some reason this one took me a long time to get together. But it was definitely worth the reworking, and you guys don't have to wait that long to read the next part~ I seem to have this weird thing where the second chapter of my fanfics involves a fight. Can't seem to stop either. /**

In the land of snows, it was difficult to judge the time of day. The sun was hidden most of the day, so there was no telling where it lay, and even at night the stars were difficult to follow if you lost your way. This wasn't so bad in the sunnier cities south, Whiterun and Falkreath and Riften were relatively warm and you could at least see the sky, but the northern skies were almost always lost under cover of snow. Even when it wasn't a full blown storm, the clouds remained ever vigilant, a looming threat that, even if it was favorable weather at the moment, it could become a tempest at any moment. This became a rather barbed thorn in Ra'Zhag's side when darkness came upon him halfway through his trek.

He thought he had at least another three hours before nightfall, but night had come faster than he anticipated, and he found he had diverged from the main road when the shadows were too thick to see through. He was left in the middle of a forest, trying to steer his horse in between the densely packed trees. Blessed with a Khajiit's sight, Ra'Zhag avoided the thick trunks of dying oaks, whose brittle leaves were heavy with a layer of fresh snow that dusted the saber cat furs wrapped around Ra'Zhag's shoulders. He shuddered as the terrible chill began to bleed through his layers of cloth. Wherever the Vampire's keep may lay, he wasn't going to make it there tonight.

Pushing back his hood a little, he breathed in a gust of the nipping air and sighed a puff of warm breath that rose around him like the wisps of smoke from a candle, floating freely back to brush his cheeks. Forests rose around him, suddenly very tall, then vanished completely as he came into a clearing, and everything was bright once more with the light of the moon that had finally broken free of the northern clouds. It was only a sliver, but it was enough to make out his surroundings. Behind him were the towering trees that rested on a plateau, and he realized the last had seemed so tall when he broke free of them because he had been riding upwards along a razor thin path in the crags of a mountain. Ahead of him was a silver bathed keep of stone, the moon making each brick shimmer even with only the smallest of holes in the blanket of clouds to shine through. Candlelight peeked out of a window at the top of a tower and torches burned brightly on sconces at the mouth of the keep, lined by dangerous looking fences of spikes made from sharpened logs of wood. Ra'Zhag could only hope this was the keep he was looking for, but he doubted it. Either way, he would be killing someone tonight, alive or undead. The keep was clearly inhabited, and the only people that seemed to inhabit these places weren't the type to share their comforts, comforts the Khajiit sorely needed. Ra'Zhag felt his bones ache with the cold, and he was more than sure he could handle a few scattered bandits, so he slipped from his horse and thanked the sturdy mount under his breath before continuing quietly on foot. The horse whinnied uneasily but didn't follow.

Snow crunched under his heavy boots as he crept closer to the high walls of the keep, avoiding the sharpened stakes, and pressed his back against the cool rock. There were voices somewhere inside, and a shadow passing at the top of the wall made him flatten himself a little more to the stone. His axe made a slick grating noise as he drew it from his back, brandishing it in front of him as he peered around the corner. Three men in the courtyard, two idling along the walkways above and how ever many more were inside the keep itself. Ra'Zhag could barely make them out in the shadows as each one was wearing dark black robes, but a particularly tall and gangly member of the group was wearing one painted with a sickly green skull on his chest that practically glowed, making him the easiest target. But they made Ra'Zhag hesitate. He knew a dark mage when he saw one. At the moment, he saw five.

With their skinny arms and fumbling feet, he could have easily overpowered every single one of them, but getting close enough to do so would be a challenge. Much as he hated Vampires, he hated the mages in dark robes as much or even more. They knew spells of fireballs that could strike him before he made it within ten feet of them, and could conjure wolves to do their fighting for them, or create giants made of ice, or suck his soul straight from his body while it was still warm. Vampires just had to get in biting distance of you, Ra'Zhag had yet to meet one with as much practice in magic as the mages in dark robes. Most every battle he fought could be won with brute force, and he told himself over and over again for the following moments that they were still only men. Men who bled, same as the rest of them. They had many great magic tricks but none would have a weapon larger than a dagger. He told himself this again and again; they are men made of blood, they are men made of blood.

Twisting his gloved hands around the leather bound hilt of his axe, he let out a long, slow breath that curled around him in plumes in the frosted air. Then he charged into the courtyard.

Having made no sound or battlecry as he rushed forward, the first mage, the one closest to the entrance, had barely enough time to whirl around before Ra'Zhag's axe split open his neck, and his warning shout to the others came with a gurgling noise as blood began to fill his lungs. He fell, gagging and coughing while the thick redness sputtered from his mouth with every struggled breath. They were men made of blood. He shot out after the mage in the skull robe. They had noticed him now, and the skull mage was backing quickly away, swinging his arm back out of sight, then forward as he flung something at Ra'Zhag. The Khajiit easily pivoted out of its path, and heard a loud and sudden crackling behind him like ice cracking where the thing had struck the ground. He ignored it, heaving his axe upwards at the mage, who swept back with an impressive swiftness. Ra'Zhag caught a purple light at his left side and ducked down just in time to miss a spell hurled at his head from atop the keep's walls. This time he stole a glance back at where the spell hit, seeing a scorch mark in the snow that encircled what looked like an arrow, but which looked opaque like smog in the shape of an arrow. In this split second the skull mage rushed past him, his robes flapping noisily around him, and skid to a stop beside the one fallen mage. A stream of violet light illuminated his now long dead comrade. Ra'Zhag realized he was trying to heal him, he'd seen Ri'sien do a similar spell that took away all his pains and stitched his body back together, and he smirked smugly. Healing a dead man was the greater waste of magic than enchanting boots.

He clutched to his axe, ignoring the mage while he tended to a corpse, and threw himself at the next opponent. Their hands flew upwards, palms facing Ra'Zhag, and a rush of heat met him, taking him by surprise. At first, he considered it a welcome attack as the warmth crept into his clothes. Then the warmth became a river of flames like dragon's breath.

The Khajiit stumbled and shielded his bare face while the flames lapped at his breastplate, where the metal began to glow red hot and he felt the fur on his chest begin to burn. With a feral growl, he dove forward, rolling with his axe tucked against him, and sprang to his feet all in one quick movement. Now he was close enough to strike the mage, but at the same time, closer to the heat of his flames. Even as he felt the metal of his chest plate touch his collarbone and the undeniable sting of it burning into his skin, he blocked the pain and held his axe high above him, bringing it down on the mage's head, where it fragmented his skull into shards of bone. He watched the mage's eyes loll back into his head before he crumpled to the ground, painted with gore.

Another burst of light and Ra'Zhag jumped forward to avoid a second incorporeal arrow that fizzled into the earth where he had once stood. He unhooked a small woodcutter's axe from the loop of his belt and strained to raise it above his head so far the poll brushed his shoulder blades. Then, with every muscle tensing and rippling under his skin, he sent it hurtling, spinning from handle to blade towards the mage on the walkways, where it stuck into his kneecap with a sickening shlunk, and the black robed mage buckled. They are men made of blood.

He turned, dragging the tip of one boot into the ground so snow kicked up all around him, and faced the skull mage once more. Only it wasn't just him anymore. The other man that had fallen was standing, slumped, at the skull mage's side. The wound Ra'Zhag had inflicted was steadily leaking crimson down the front of his robes, but not in the steady pumps it would if his heart were beating, Ra'Zhag realized. No, it was simply slipping freely in bunches of red ribbons down his chest, slowly and surely draining from him. But he was standing. Standing on his own two feet, albeit hunched and broken looking. He moaned a guttural noise and rushed the Khajiit.

The skull stitched into a mage's robes was a sign of a necromancer, it dawned on Ra'Zhag far too late.

While deep burgundy light burst from the necromancer's hands, bathing everything in a cerise glow, the thrall swiped at him with a ragged iron dagger, scraping the metal of his armor and creating a shower of sparks, and taking with it a few whiskers from his cheeks. Clumsily, he staggered back. He brought up his gauntlet before the blade came down again. This axe was not made for a single hand, he thought grimly as he threw his hulking axe upwards at the thrall with one arm, the other still pinned against the dagger, where the tip had pierced the iron shell and stuck. The axe clipped the dead man's chest before fumbling from Ra'Zhag's grip but did nothing to deter the corpse and he pressed forward, trying to pry his dagger from Ra'Zhag's arm. Being a good five stones lighter than the Khajiit, Ra'Zhag threw his hand out and easily hoisted him up by the throat. The slick feel of the corpse's neck wound nearly made him squirm and drop him.

His boot hooked under the handle of his battle axe and he flipped it up onto the shoulder, the haft standing up straight from the ground as he bended to a knee and threw the dead man down on the bit of the axe. It sliced clean through his spine and met the wound made before. His head rolled from the weapon, then broke apart, melting along with his body into a pile of ash in the shape of what had once been a man like a log crumbling in a hearth, having spent its last lick of flame.

This time, death stuck.

No sooner had he rose to his feet again that the necromancer was on top of him, stabbing wildly at his face and neck, barely giving him enough time to throw his arms up and guard his eyes before a lucky slash hit his cheek and sliced open the skin in a long gash from brow to jaw. He hissed softly, the frozen night biting at the wound, and threw his gauntlet out against the mage's skull. Staggering him for a moment, Ra'Zhag grabbed the long, leather bound handle of his axe and hefted it up in both hands, grinding his teeth as he swung it and caught the mage under the arm. Severed nerves ensured he didn't lift it again. When the necromancer spiraled back, he collected to strike again. Then the snow at his feet lit up orange and yellow in a shaft of sunset colors.

Whirling, he saw the door of the keep had swung open and spilled warm light from the torches inside out onto the courtyard. Seven blacks figures, like ebony pillars blocking the sun, had sprung up in the doorway and began to pour out in the night. Seven, then nine, then twelve, then Ra'Zhag lost count as they moved to encircle him in a ring of black robes and torchlight. Had he been given the chance to catch them by surprise, he might have overpowered them. But there was a throng of them now, the ones closest to him armed with daggers and bloodmagic, and the ones further away notching arrows and training them on him. He clutched his axe so tightly his knuckles ached. He could fight them. He was quick, he was big, he was stronger than them, he had fought off thieves and bandits without so much as scratching his armor. He could beat them, he could beat them. They are men made of blood, they are men made of blood, they are men made of-

Blood. He tasted it at the back of his throat. The axe clattered from his grasp once more and landed in a puff of snowflakes on the ground. An ivory snake donning black cloth wrapped up around him from behind and took him by the throat, five heads digging into his neck as it's tail perforated his cuirass into his back, then slowly drew away again. Cold rushed in and steam rushed out. The snake moved and wound into his dreads as he was forced to his knees, the biting steel tail moving to his throat instead, sharp and wet.

"Don't." One of the dark robes stepped forward.

"He killed Barul, and Trig!" A voice behind him growled. The snake tightened on his scalp.

"And he must pay for it. But we have use for him, don't we? Our last test subject died only yesterday, it seems a favor from the Princes that he should come to us. Bring him inside, and Barul and Trig's death will not have been in vain."

There was a pause, a moment that let Ra'Zhag appreciate how his skin spasmed painfully where he had been burned. Something gnawed his muscles and veins, more fiercely painful than any knife wound had a right to be, and the blood that pooled around it mingled with something from the blade's tip and ate through his clothes like caustic moths. He could feel the cold night air on his back. He let his eyes droop. It was almost soothing, a soft wind grazing the layer of blood.

"...As you wish, my Caller."

A loud, hard thump, and everything went black.


	3. Below the waves we go

**AN: So I'm sorry this is steadily becoming torture porn, but this is just how Ra'Zhag met his pretty Nord and I really need to put his imprisonment into some context. I also changed the synopsis cause I felt some people might be expecting a love story and ended up with this pfft. But this a warning that this chapter is ****REALLY GRAPHIC****, even compared to the last, so read on at your own risk. The love stuff is coming soon I swear, I can't keep writing about this stuff myself./**

_Pillars of white marble, veined with blue tendrils as fine and thin as rabbit hair, strained up against the vaulted ceiling and lined the walls on either side. A long red carpet, trimmed with gold, sprawled out before him, illuminated by a grand glass chandelier that swung listlessly overhead. It swung to the left and shadows skittered to the right, it swung right and they fled to the left, and they pooled around the edges of the warm circle of light when it flashed over the center of the room. It clinked as it moved, the bits of intricately cut and carefully placed glass winking at certain angles. The walls were red as well, though a more earthen tone of red, like blood mixed with mud._

_He shifted uncomfortably in his armor. Having never worn a cape, it felt strange to have the long yard of fabric trail after him with every step and bundle at his feet whenever he stopped. He tried walking down the carpet in the long, graceful strides he felt he had to make, but ended up halting every few steps to adjust the damn thing. It seemed unnatural. The radiant white armor and long flowing cloak, they all fit him snugly, but it felt like he was wearing another person's skin. He felt eyes on him from some unknown figures hidden in the shadows where the chandelier never touched. This is not your place, they seemed to say. But something pushed him forward down the red walkway all the same, fumbling and adjusting all the while, until he came to the end of the room. It was dark there. A wall as black as pitch looming ahead of him. Even when the ever swaying light swept up towards it, the light was lost to the blackness, swallowed up before it had a chance to pierce the shadows. He halted. The tips of his polished boots peeked over the edge, where the world simply stopped. And before him stretched an endless maw of nothing._

_It made his stomach flip._

_"Will you betray her?" Someone called to him from deep inside the nothing. A woman's voice that rang the halls behind and made the nothing quiver. A familiar sounding voice, who it belonged to, he could not say. Thousands of questions burned in his mind, but he found himself speaking before he had a chance to._

_"No." It bubbled from his lips before he had a chance to contemplate the question. Betray who?_

_"Do you pledge your sword to her?"_

_"My sword, my life, and my heart." He wasn't sure how the speech came so easily to him. It was like a vow he'd practiced a thousand times before now, even though he had never said it before._

_"Do you forsake your Masters?"_

_"Hers will be the only voice that guides my hand."_

_"Will you protect her?"_

_"Always."_

_"Liar." She said it calmly, but it made the floor beneath his feet buck and nearly dropped him to his knees. The eyes in the shadows behind him burned into his back._

_"N-No! I would never- I will protect her with my life!"_

_"LIAR!" The halls heaved in a great wave that rushed down the corridor, the floor undulating and pushing the pillars so hard against the ceiling that many of them cracked, and the chandelier shattered, all before the voice seemed to speak. The word became a cacophony of crumbling marble and crackling glass. He stumbled to regain his footing when the wave struck him, but tripped on his cloak and fell back hard. The eyes were nearer now, so near he could see white orbs peeking out of the walls. His heartbeat was hammering in his skull._

_"I swear I will protect her! I swear it in judgment of the Nine, and may the Daedra take me if I lie!"_

_It did nothing to quell the chaos and the halls rumbled and groaned as everything began to corrode around him. Fear gripped him by the roots of his soul itself as he forced himself to stand, whirling on his heels. His cape fluttered behind him and he dashed as swift as his legs could carry him back down the hall. The floor rose and fell and heaved beneath him, the chandelier swung; the shards of glass littering the floor and hanging frozen in the air cutting at him when he ran through them. But the faster he ran, the deeper his boots sucked into the carpet, until his legs were submerged in a river of red quicksand. _You can't run_, the voice was his own now, but he had not spoken. It chased after him from the void and fell deafening upon his ears. _You can't run, turn back! You have to go back!_ But he couldn't. He had to run, he couldn't return to the darkness, but he could move no further forward. He clawed at the floor, leaving gashes in the ground that began oozing black. And he screamed and he screamed his vow, though he felt it in his heart to be false, until the vow became cries for mercy, and the pillars collapsed and the walls fell away into darkness. Until the cloak clasped at this throat burned away and his armor rusted and decayed into dust. Until hundreds upon thousands of Khajiit breached the bounds of the shadows they had watched him from, eyes milky white and sightless, and descended on him with claw and fang._

* * *

A dilapidated ceiling hung above him. His screams for mercy had become a pathetic whimper, and the Khajiit had left him. He studied the cracks between each brick for a few moments after his eyes shot open, thrusting him from the world of frantic vows and hidden voices to a world of cold, damp stone. He was thankful for the cool stone beneath him, as the dream had soaked him through with sweat, and his heart still thumped painfully in his ribcage. He grimaced, moving to sit up. Metal ringed his wrist and pinned him where he lay. Suddenly reminders of his battle made his skin prickle in goosepimples at the fierce stinging in his chest and back, and he let his head fall back against the stone bed he was shackled to. He looked down at himself.

The burn wound had festered, the red and irritated skin blotching around the raised blisters that had spread, and it was colored shades of rotting black about the edges and puss yellow towards the center. A stench rose up from the injury and made his nose wrinkle in disgust. He pressed his head as far from it as he could, but the charred skin was draped directly over his collarbone, making this difficult if nigh impossible to get away from the stink of dying flesh. The rest of his body hurt from bruises and was weak with exhaustion, the pain from the knife wound in his back mingling with pains fresh and old, and pains he didn't remember having before. His head lolled insensibly to the right, and his gaze fell on tools laid out on a wooden table against the far wall. Bone saws and pliers blotted with blood and rust, dangerous looking serrated blades, hooks, a small, crooked harpoon. They all looked ill maintained but freshly used, the dim torchlight catching rubies at the tip of the knives. He wanted to grimace, but the movement wrinkled the skin beneath the cut on his cheek. Ra'Zhag strained against his binds, arching his back as he turned his eyes upwards towards the sound of metal moaning above his head.

Hanging from the ceiling behind him sat a heavy iron cage that twirled slowly and dispiritedly. Bones were scattered around the ground under the high strung cage and an intact forearm and hand fell over the floor of the cage, hanging limp between the slits. A pale almond hand slithered through the bars and dug it's sharp nails into the wall nearest it, pushing the cage in circles.

Locked inside was a young Imperial, dressed in a roughspun tunic and trousers, dyed by patches of red. His hair was black as tar and half as thick, tumbling down his back in knots of rat nests, falling well past his waist. A comely face, speckled with stubble, was marred by a single bright red scar reaching from his jaw, over the bump of his lips, and stopping just below his aqualine nose. He was rather full faced for being imprisoned, not looking like the underfed skeletons Ra'Zhag sometimes saw hanging out front of Stormcloak keeps. In fact, he looked mildly disinterested in his predicament, amber eyes half-lidded in a look of boredom as he sang. Ra'Zhag blinked. _He is singing?_

It was only now that Ra'Zhag came to notice he was humming softly, the sound almost imperceptible above the groaning bolts in his cage.

"_I came to my lover by the sea,_

_And by the sea she returns to me,_

_In a dress of foam and tide and weed,_

_My bride the sea returns to me._

_Oh woe, below the waves we go._

_Oh woe, my love dance to and fro."_

"Hello?" Ra'Zhag croaked, finding his throat felt of nettles to speak.

"Awake are we?" The Imperial's voice was deep and thick, as melodious when he spoke as it was when he sang. "You're a big fellow, aren't you? Took three of those skinny mages to get you into bed. Quite a travesty to see them try to heave you above their heads, only they struck me when I laughed about it." He lifted his hand to nurse a bruise mottling his jaw under the stubble.

"Where are we..."

"Some dank place, I couldn't give you the name. I fear they won't allow me a look at my map. Just as well, I've always been shit with directions."

"We can not be far from Winterhold..." Ra'Zhag muttered to no one in particular as he moved in his constraints again to look around, perhaps hoping for a sign.

"Aye, I was hunting Horkers near the College when they took me." His face scrunched in irritation as something dawned on him. "Those bastards probably ate my meat and used up all my blubber, oh now I _am_ mad."

Mad may have been a more apt word for the Imperial than we was aware. Ra'Zhag strained to roll half-way on his side and craned his neck to look at the wall behind him.

And then he saw the other he shared this room with. Another Khajiit lay atop a stone slab on the other side of the room, with fur the color of fresh leather spotted with black. His face stared out into nothing, awake and yet unfocused as if he slept, his features slack and lifeless. Lengths of his fur had been peeled back to expose the muscles and tissue in his chest, the skin pinned at his sides by long needles stuck into the rock he lay on. Small puncture wounds dotted the exposed flesh. The blood that had dribbled from the wound had long dried and turned brown like autumn leaves where it had pooled around his body, caught in his fur, and poured onto the floor. Ra'Zhag felt bile rise in his throat, but had nothing in his stomach and nowhere to turn to release it. The Imperial must have caught the little sound of sick he made.

"Your blood fought well, if that will console you. He cut one of their throats with those claws of his before they could restrain him, near took her head off. And he never pleaded. Screamed, but that's to be expected of everyone, even the courageous." It was somewhat consoling. Ra'Zhag's heart always pained for the sufferings of his own people before it would the hardships of mer or men.

"That one is a stranger to me." The suffer in his voice would say otherwise, but it was true.

"All the same."

Ra'Zhag stared at the quickly paling eyes of his brethren. His brother stared back. "What do they...what do they do here..."

"Isn't it obvious?"

He grimaced. It was, terribly so, but Ra'Zhag secretly hoped there was something else in store for him.

"How long have you been here?"

"Time is nothing in a room without windows," the Imperial mused. He pulled on his short whiskers. "I didn't have the sense to mark my days anywhere. But summer was only just dawning when I was captured. What is it now?"

"Still summer. Nearing fall."

"Not long then. Gods be good! I might make my niece's wedding yet. I was so hoping to see her married off to that bastard farmboy from Riverwood. Sweet lad, no matter what my Aunt says. She's a dry cow anyway, and she raised the village whore, so who is she to complain about what man will wed her daughter? It's not as though any Jarl will marry a woman heaving a belly swollen with another man's child. It's a slap to the farmboy, honestly." Something told Ra'Zhag he didn't have a niece. The Imperial once more reached out of the bars and pushed off the wall, spinning the cage idly. "Oh, I've been rude, I haven't introduced myself, have I? My name-" He stopped when the cage made him turn his back on the Khajiit and waited until it turned around again. "-is Avari."

"Ra'Zhag."

"Well, Ra'Zhag, I suggest you settle in. It may be your only respite for a long time." Avari shifted to force his legs through the bars, laying his hands against the floor of the cage between them. "Mind if I finish my song?"

Voicing no objections, Ra'Zhag listened as the Imperial picked up his song where he had left it. His eyes stayed on his kin. Practically a cub. He couldn't have been past fifteen summers, lithe of legs and chest, but the lines of muscle under his peeled skin made him seem more powerful. Ra'Zhag couldn't tear his eyes from the gore of his body sprawled over the slab. Was this the work of the mages in the courtyard? What use would they have in torturing his kind? And not just his kind, the Imperial as well, and there may well be other rooms with more inhumane tortures being carried out on the other mer and men and beasts to be found in Skyrim. To what end? He would ask his cell mate, but doubted the singer had any more of a clue than he did. And children no less. The skinned Khajiit was only a child. Whether he died courageously or died simpering like a babe, he shouldn't have died. He snapped his eyes shut to spare himself the sight a moment longer.

Avari sang and somewhere water dripped in the distance, and Ra'Zhag stared at the inside of his eyelids, unable to let himself look at the body another moment longer for he would surely drive himself mad. The stench of his sickness eventually faded, or at least he grew accustomed to it, even as the pain of his wounds gnawed relentlessly at the back of his mind. The Imperial sang of the sea and the love he lost to it, he sang songs Ra'Zhag knew from the sands of Elsweyr, some he knew from the taverns in the holds of Skyrim, and some he didn't recognize. When Ra'Zhag could bring himself to speak and ask where he learned them, the singer said he wrote them, and beamed when the Khajiit half-heartedly praised them. Ra'Zhag's thoughts turned -dully- to what would befall him while Avari sang of a lusty Argonian maid. He wouldn't die like the cub, he told himself, he wouldn't allow his body to die no matter what torture they inflicted. He would not die; not until he was an old, crotchety bastard with children and grandchildren, and not before he saw his home at least once more. He would catch a lizard again, only then could he die in peace. He found himself looked up at Avari. His goals must have been far broader than catching lizards, but he deserved to reach them as well. Though he didn't know much of him or held his company for longer than a few hours, he didn't want him to die either. So he prayed. Prayed for sands, prayed for Avari to see his niece (whether she existed or not), and simply prayed. He found himself thinking of his dream, or what he could remember of it. He recalled how he had to beseech some unknown force to spare him, only he was without doubt as to whether or not this force existed in the first place. As for the Nine; he was having his uncertainties.

Avari had began a throaty rendition of "The Dragonborn Comes".

"Quit your yowling, leech!" Ra'Zhag jolted, looking to the doorway that lead up to a set of crumbling stairs. A black, robed figure stomped down them, brandishing a dark wooden staff. "How many times do I have to tell ya'!" He struck the Imperial hard across the legs, making him yelp and forcing him to pull them in through the bars again, huddling his knees against himself. Dejected, he fell silent. Ra'Zhag instinctively moved forward to strike the mage in return, but only met the cold bite of his shackles bearing into his skin. The mage turned to him when he heard the rustling, and a smirk lit his face from under his robes. Another black hooded figure descended the stairs soon after, one arm wrapped in a sling and held against his chest. He sneered when he met Ra'Zhag's gaze.

"Hmph. So this one's awake."

The first robe crossed the room to Ra'Zhag, staff scraping against the ground, and the sound echoed in the small, wet room. He stopped, laying a cold ivory hand against the stone slab. Lingering this close, he could smell mead roiling from his breath when he spoke. "Sleep well?"

Ra'Zhag mustered what saliva he could spare and spat in the mage's face.

He, in turn, cracked the Khajiit against the cheek with a gloved fist, clutched around the length of his staff. Ra'Zhag felt a tooth in the back of his jaw loosen as blood quickly pooled in his mouth. He spouted that at the mage's feet, splashing his boots with red spittle.

"Bastard," the mage growled, stepping away. The second came to replace him, draping an arm over the Khajiit's torso and resting a hand on the other side of his body. The straps holding him in place kept him from tearing the mage's throat into strips, though his attention stayed pinned on the visible pulsing under the skin at his neck, every tiny bump of the mage's heartbeat bringing the violence, fear, and hatred up in Ra'Zhag's chest like bitter acid. He said nothing, but moved down to Ra'Zhag's legs. Ra'Zhag wanted nothing more than to wrench free of his binds and kick him in the chest.

But he froze as something glinted under the yards of threadbare, black cloth. A tool slipped from his sleeve in a flash of metal; a rusted auger with a splintery wooden brace suddenly clasped in his hand.

"You killed Barul," he ground through gnashing teeth, "And Trig. You cost me my arm." He handed the tool off to the first mage. The first robe drove it into Ra'Zhag's leg. "You will not leave here alive. But neither will I let you die." The tip of the tool dug into bone, then burrowed deeper and deeper as the twisting blades spun, steadily burying it into his skeleton. Metal soon began to slice into his flesh as the sharp edges running in a spiral up the instrument met his skin. "You will beg me to release you into Sithis' embrace before I'm done. And I will deny you." Ra'Zhag threw his head back with a scream he could no longer contain. When he tried to tear his leg away from the instrument, his foot caught against the shackles, but he couldn't will himself to stop thrashing, and soon his ankle had been worn raw.

"Cowards!" he roared once he'd found his voice amongst the sea of clashing pains in his head. "Fight for your brothers if you're so-" He grit his teeth, tears swelling in his eyes as he bit back another scream. A bone cracked. He fell back with a sharp cry. Words blanked from his mind and spots began to swarm his vision. Just as he was ready to relinquish himself and let darkness take him, the auger twisted in the opposite direction, unwinding itself from his flesh and bone and finally it was freed from him.

Hands gripped him by the jaw.

"That was the first taste. Not quite enough to sate my appetite, but there will be more to come, I promise you." The mage released him, and then they were gone before Ra'Zhag could bring the world back into focus, only for the world to darken and black.

This would be the first night of many, and as the mage swore, it would not be the last.


	4. Black sleep

Time, as Avari had said, became meaningless in the room without windows. Ra'Zhag counted his days by the times he slept, and many times he didn't sleep so much as faint. But going by his lapses in and out of consciousness, it had been near a fortnight. In his waking hours, Avari sang (when he was able to) and brought him some semblance of comfort, but this never lasted long before the mages came in and silenced him, beating him every time so he was black and blue and swollen by the end of the week. Or the month, or the day, it was difficult to judge solely on the times he awoke and fell asleep. After berating the Imperial, they would set to work on Ra'Zhag's torture for the day. It was only once a day, and sometimes Ra'Zhag wished they would carry out their torments all at once and be done with it. The mage with the injured arm made it clear he wanted this to last as long as he could, relishing each time he split open the Khajiit or lashed him to a rack and turned the crank. The stone slab underneath him was a frozen hell when he slept or laid awake listening to Avari, but was a godsend after _they_ came for him, the cold and smooth stone kissing the raging heat from his wounds. These were the times Avari sang especially softly, even after they'd busted his bottom lip and his songs sounded funny. In between, they would talk to one another, regale stories from childhood or adolescence, sometimes even laugh, though the laughter came out as wheezes or was cut short by a flash of pain.

Over the next few nights, Avari told Ra'Zhag many stories he wasn't entirely sure were true, but some sounded plausible. He was a sailor before he came to Skyrim, many of the songs he learned were shanties and work songs he'd picked up on his travels or drinking songs he'd heard in taverns, and he had been the one to keep the men of the ship in tandem with their work, admitting that he was more a bard on a boat than a sailor of any kind. After docking in Solitude, Avari found some inexplicable charm in the country and left the ship for the Bard's College. But finding enrollment consisted more of delving into dark dungeons than he'd have liked, he left there as well and found himself in a foreign country with no job, no skills, and no boats to board and resume his work as a seafarer. He roamed rather aimlessly for a few years until he had mapped nearly every corner of Skyrim, before returning to the north to Winterhold. This was where he had been when the mages caught him, trading in the local market with meat and blubber from horkers, along with some work in scrimshawing the tusks and selling those as well.

Ra'Zhag wasn't as forthcoming with his past as Avari, but it helped to have another voice in the small cell; one that didn't come from the black robes that filed in and out of the keep each day.

And at night, his dreams stole into his mind, the oddest dreams he'd ever experienced. More than once he had the dream of the hallway, of the eyes in the shadows and the marble columns. On other nights he dreamed of dragons. He'd only ever seen one; a great, leathery-winged thing with a thick plate of scales. Ri'sien snatched one when the city guards felled it, Ra'Zhag was only ever allowed to hold it once, and he was marveled by how it flashed rainbows in certain lights. In his dream, the dragon was larger than the one he saw, big enough it could snatch a mammoth in its teeth and the wooly beast looked like a mouse in a cat's jaws. Its scales were slick and smooth, and scattered prisms of light when the sun hit its back. It towered over him, beady black eyes burning, and roared its scorn, lashing its tail at the ground. Crystals burst from the ground where its tail smashed in the earth. A Spriggan -or what he thought was a Spriggan- danced in his peripheral, whispering with a voice like a hive of bees. They sounded more like words than he'd ever heard from a Spriggan, but he couldn't quite make them out. Soft pink petals billowed around her and pale moths nested in the hollow space of her ribcage, where the decaying branches that made up her body closed around them in twisting roots. The Spriggan only came into full view when she fluttered to stand by the gargantuan dragon, and the creature smashed its fangs into her shoulder. She stood still and allowed him to shred her fragile body. He could recall the especially loud noise of the moths battering themselves in panic against the hollow wood. It seemed louder than even the dragon's roar when he woke.

Sometimes the dreams were less fantastic, but these were the most reassuring. He dreamed of his parents before they broke apart in Elsweyr, when he was just a cub, but carried the memories of his adulthood. The memories of the many years he spent apart from his Mother. He found himself in their tiny shack, the one that was constantly buffeted by sandstorms, his litter mates running excitedly around behind him. They were shrieking about one thing or another and the sound made his ears ring. But he was focused on their Mother. He went and sat by her while she was cooking and listened to her humming. There were so many things he wanted to say, things he wanted to tell her since his Father died, things he lamented not being able to put to paper, having never been taught to read or write. All he could say to her was, "I love you Mama." And she'd smiled at him. A smile with the warmth and familiarity and love of a Mother. He closed his eyes when she kissed him on the cheek and replied, but she was gone when he opened them again. The cold of the keep was all that greeted him.

Avari sometimes told of him of his own dreams when Ra'Zhag brought up the topic, but they mostly consisted of a steam room where he was surrounded by busty wenches that brought him fruit and wine. Although once he did mention having had a dream about his own Mother, only she was a Hagraven nursing a wolf-baby, and he didn't care to describe the rest.

It was one night, after the mages had strung Ra'Zhag up against the wall and robbed him of his cold comfort, that Avari went quiet. Ra'Zhag would request he sing, but he hadn't a memory of the last drop of water he'd tasted, and he could barely speak for the burning in his throat, so this was far beyond him. He peeked up at the bard from the disheveled dreads. Jovial, mirthful Avari sat with his head hung, with not a smart remark or a smile or a song, his tangled tresses falling to cover his face. He'd grown quiet and quieter in the last few days.

"Avari," Ra'Zhag croaked. "You know that Stormcloak song?...Could you..."

"Not tonight, friend." His voice was weak. Ra'Zhag glanced at the Imperial's arm, where bones stuck close to his skin. He'd been in here twice as long as the Khajiit, how long had he gone without eating? Ra'Zhag glanced down at himself, having not thought before to take stock of his own state. Muscles still rolled under his skin, as scarred and scabbed and bloody as it was beneath his fur, but his ribs were beginning to show, made more obvious by the way his arms had been trained up behind him, straining his chest further out. He was about to offer some small condolence to Avari, though he had none in mind, when the familiar sound of hinges swinging sent him back up against the wall. It had become a reflex now.

Four robes came down the stairs this time, the two leading the group in holding between them a young girl of straw colored hair and a fair face. She looked maybe even younger than the cub with the torn away chest, and her head lolled limply backwards to reveal the base of her throat. Thin red lines ran across her skin where fingers had dug into her neck. Her eyes were glassy as the dead, but he could hear her ragged struggles for air. She was alive, only barely. They held her completely off the ground, slung across their shoulders, as they pattered down the steps into the chamber, and the girl gave a whisper of a groan. They let her knees buckle, now holding her aloft by her mess of gold hair.

One broke away from the group to Avari's cage. The emaciated bard came crashing easily out when they gripped him by his tunic, throwing him to his hands and knees before the young woman.

"We've brought you dinner," one remarked calmly. "Eat."

Avari sat up, albeit weakly, and observed the whimpering woman. "...I'm not hungry just now, but... thanks for the thought."

Ra'Zhag swallowed hard. They weren't really trying to turn Avari to... _cannibalism_, were they? He growled softly, fingers twitching in his binds.

"Doesn't tantalize you, does it?" The mage holding the woman tipped her head up, bearing the tip of a dagger into her exposed throat, and a thick rivulet of blood lazily trickled down her paling skin.

There was a pause. Ra'Zhag clambered noisily in his chains, hoping to remind Avari he was watching. He couldn't do anything to her. He wasn't an animal, no matter how they treated him. He wasn't seriously considering...

"I fear I've filled up on dust and cobwebs, I could scarce eat another bite. Rude as it is to turn down such a gracious offer." The one nearest him kicked him hard in the ribs, and he went down to the cold stone, choking for air as it rushed out of him.

"This isn't an offer you will refuse, _leech_-" Another mage stilled the one that struck him with a hand on the shoulder. Ra'Zhag could see her fingers were ghostly white and skeletal, peeking out from threadbare robes.

"Some petulant children need to be forced to finish their dinner. He ought to be thankful for it." Her voice was deep and husky. "Break his jaw. Teach him to be thankful for our gifts."

Before Avari could scramble back to his knees, they had taken him by the thicket of hair, holding him in place even as he kicked chaotically and nearly sent himself and the mage sprawling with his wild thrashing. Another came to kneel in front of him.

"Come near me and you'll draw back a bloody stump!" Ra'Zhag had never heard the Imperial's voice ringing with such rage, but he could hear the fear in it, see it as he tried to find the leverage to kick again. Even as he squirmed and snapped and shouted, the mage's fingers jammed in between his teeth, hooked the front teeth on the top and bottom rows, and pried them apart. For a moment it looked like he might clamp them back down on the hands jammed roughly into his mouth. Ra'Zhag could see, even at this distance, that the muscles in his jaws were working, straining to close around the steely grip that forced them open, and Avari was gagging defiantly in what vaguely resembled obscenities. But they only lasted a moment, until a noisome crack made him cry out and his struggles lessened. Ra'Zhag's stomach dropped. Tears brimmed in the Imperial's eyes, open wide in disbelief and a pain he couldn't find the strength to scream about.

The mage holding him wound up his thick hair around their fist and threw him against the woman. His shattered jaw hung open wide, tongue spilling over his bottom teeth, as they pressed his mouth against her opened jugular. While one held him in place, another held his chin so his teeth clinched into her skin, working his throat so he swallowed the blood that came rushing from the wound. He batted weakly at the mage's face, but they easily brushed aside his hand and kept his lips sealed around her wound.

"You're mad! You're all mad!" Ra'Zhag shouted, rattling his chains in frustration.

The woman of the group stepped towards, black cloth swaying around her with the movement. It made the inky black material seem alive, moving independently of her.

"Mad?" Her tone was light, airy as she came to stand in front of him. Cloth rippled when she gestured to Avari. "We've given it what it needs to survive. Surely you would not fault us for feeding _you_."

"I would if you would force me into cannibalism," Ra'Zhag rumbled, eyes dangerously sharp on the mage. Only by torchlight could he see she had eyes of her own, a dull shade of blue like rainclouds, the light from the sconces lancing worms of light along her irises. The rest of her face was still in the shade of her hood.

"We force it into nothing. We no more force it to drink of blood and eat of flesh than we would force a dog to gnaw the marrow of animal bones. A Vampire, even one as careful and...conservative as this one, lusts for the life force of others. It would be crueler to deny it."

"He isn't...H-He..." Ra'Zhag head swam with visions of great wild bats, of humans with turned up noses and beastly features carved into a dead face, of malicious smiles shining through a smattering of blood. But he still saw only Avari. He saw the bard weeping into the young woman's wound and saying something his broken jaw couldn't articulate, struggling in futility to push himself away from the dying girl, as red and clear waters mingled into a pink stream that flooded into the cuts on his cheek. This wasn't what a Vampire looked like. It couldn't be.

"Pit," she called to the mages forcing Avari to keep still and drink. "Why is this one still alive?"

"M-Manvil, my lady. He wants revenge for the ones this house cat killed on his way in, says we're not supposed to touch him until he's had his..."

"His fun. Hmph. Typical. Thinks he has any say about what we do with _my_ prisoners. Well, once you're done with that one, I want you to ensure _Manvil_ can take no pleasure in his experiments on this Khajiit."

"My lady? You mean for us to..."

Ra'Zhag's innards clenched. _For us to kill him_, was what the mage nearly said.

_Come let them try_, was what Ra'Zhag thought in return, even as his heart plummeted and his eyes flashed horror.

"No. But Manvil appreciates screams more than any man I've ever met. Make sure he gets none from our little friend here the next he tries." Another of the mages broke away from the girl and Avari, taking his place by the woman's side.

"I understand, my lady," he said flatly. This was his duty. Ra'Zhag almost wished he had said it with a crooked grin and a maleficent lapping of his chops, so he could blame the mage's action on a pure sickness of the mind.

But there was a startling clarity in his face when he approached Ra'Zhag, and bashed him aside the head with something hard and rounded, hurtling him into darkness and a black sleep he feared would be his last sleep.


End file.
